Mornings Like This
by FuyuSarah
Summary: She sighs and moves to reprimand him, but instead of seeing glinting eyes and a mischievous smirk, her vision is filled with gold. Strands and strands and strands of silken gold. [Same universe as "Mornings Like That", but can be read independently.]


A/N: I was going to write a funny and fluffy drabble, but my brain decided to do something else without my permission. Now it's a three-page thing that's little serious but still hopefully fluffy. ANYWAY. It's 3 AM. I'll have to be an irresponsible writer and edit this tomorrow.

For ladyofacat, because it was her prompt that brought this on, and for caprette, because I love her sketches and she drew that Adrien-with-Chat-Noir-hair-therefore-he-looks-like-Mytho one. And because they are both simply awesome.

Standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

With all of Marinette's late night activities—both as a civilian and a hero of Paris—unhurried mornings are a rarity.

Mornings like _this_ , then, are treasured. Mornings like this, when she can wake up slowly; when she can appreciate the softness of her bed; when she can take time to be thankful of the good dream she had, regardless of whether or not she remembers what the dream was about— good dreams usually involved a specific blond man with bright green eyes, anyway.

Eyes still closed, she sighs in lazy bliss, fully intending to melt into her pillows— when something tickles the bridge of her nose. She huffs a little, hoping that her exhalation would rid her of the cause of interruption, but the tickling continues, like a cat begging for attention.

She knew of one particular cat who likes to have her attention at all times.

She sighs again and opens her eyes, ready to (jokingly) reprimand him that it's too early, but instead of seeing glinting eyes and a mischievous smirk, her vision is filled with gold. Strands and strands and strands of silken gold. She blinks herself further into wakefulness, waiting for him to laugh and nudge the top of his head even more against her.

He doesn't.

The arm he has draped across her middle remains heavy and unmoving. His face appears to still be smooshed into his pillow beside hers.

"Well," she whispers in a laugh, "trust you to demand my attention even in your sleep." She scoots down the bed a little so that they are eye to eye, so that his breath brushes her lips instead of her collarbone.

She truly treasures mornings like this, she thinks again, when she can languidly recommit each plane and contour of his features to her memory—not that she can ever forget. Usually, she's able to do this in the darkness of the night, letting the sight of him so relaxed and contented lull her into sleep. In the mornings, it's usually him who wakes up first to watch her sleep until she opens her eyes...or until she's _just about_ to be late for work. (She still scolds him for enjoying himself too much. He still only laughs and concedes that he does.)

Unable to resist, she traces a fingertip gently down his cheek. He'd had a cut there a few nights ago. He'd had cuts _everywhere_ , actually; some shallow, most deep. Luck had seemed to be on the akuma's side for a long, terrifying, chunk of that night. (It didn't, of course, not really. It's not the first time she's thankful that the Miraculous Cure returns everything to the way they were before the attack.)

As if sensing her changing mood, the arm around her middle tightens, and she immediately feels a wave of happiness and comfort wash over her.

 _He's here._  
 _He's safe._  
 _We're okay._

She treasures mornings when she can bask in that fact.

His breathing is still even and uniform, but it's a slightly shallower than it was a few minutes ago. He must be waking up soon.

Feeling a little playful, she inches forward and boops his nose with hers, moving away quickly as his hand reacts to paw at his face.

She stifles a snicker and does it again, barely dodging his fingers, this time.

He whines a little—a small noise in the back of his throat that almost resembles a meow—before his eyelid, the one not half-buried in his pillow, flutters and slowly slides open. His one-eyed gaze is slightly unfocused, but even then, he smiles that soft smile that he only ever gives to her, lazily greeting, "Good morning, Princess."

She giggles and boops her nose on his again.

"You're in a good mood," he observes, his voice almost a velvety purr.

She nods, raking her eyes over his appearance again. His half-hidden eyes. The curve of his lips. The disheveled mop of his bedhead.

"You look like Chat Noir."

He blinks at that, smile dropping. "Wha—?" His eyes finally sharpen into awoken focus as he shifts to prop himself on his elbow. She laughs, partly at his bewildered look, partly at herself.

"You look like Chat Noir right now," she repeats.

His eyebrows furrow as he holds himself above her. "Huh," he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into an amused grin. "Isn't that a claw-incidence. Because I actually happen to _be_ Chat Noir."

"That's not what I meant!" she says, rolling her eyes just because that's her automatic reaction to his antics. "I meant— well, I think it's your hair, mostly."

"My hair?" He looks up as if he'd actually see anything more than the ends of the locks flopped on his forehead. "What about it?"

"It's—" she pauses to comb her fingers up in the golden locks in question. "It's all messy right now. And it's parted in the middle—actually, I don't even know if you can say it's parted _anywhere_ — and it's so unlike your full Adrien Agreste look with the perfect swoosh and the perfect floof."

"Floof?" he echoes with a raised eyebrow, but the teasing effect is dulled when he leans into her touch.

"Floof," she confirms. "The Adrien Agreste floof is impeccable and swoon-worthy, and is perfect for the hair-in-the-wind effect in shows and photoshoots. The Chat Noir floof is unruly and sexy and perfect for pats. I don't know why I'm pointing it out now, really. I mean, I see you with a messy head every...day..."

She trails off when she notices the sudden shift in his expression. Where there was a loving warmth in his eyes before, there's a now a smoldering heat, and his smile has widened into a smirk. A perfectly Chat Noir-ish one. He give a low hum as he leans towards her, and she feels it permeate to her very core.

"A messy head, huh?" he asks, brushing his lips to the corner of her mouth. "You always mess my head," he mumbles on her cheek. "You make my head spin." He moves to whisper in her ear, "I can't think when it comes to you."

She can't quite understand how a joking conversation about unkempt hair has spiralled into a heated kiss—not that he's actually kissed her yet; _why hasn't he kissed her yet?!_ — but she didn't have the inclination to figure it out. Instead, she just lets herself rake her fingertips along his scalp as she sighs, "Adrien…"

He hums again as he skims across her cheek to travel back to her lips, and she couldn't control the pleasant shiver that runs her spine.

"But I'm not Adrien, Princess," he murmurs against her, lips still curved in that smirk, "I'm Chat Noir, don't you recognize my catastrophic but cat-tractive mane?"

She stills, eyes flying open.

Under her arms, his shoulders begin to shake.

 _Did he just—_

She shoves him away just in time for him to explode into laughter.

"Oh my god!" she exclaims, but unable to keep her own laughter from her voice, "You're impossible!"

"Did you say, 'im-paw-sible'?"

"Incorrigible."

"'In-claw-rrigble'?"

"Okay, that one's truly horrendous, even for you."

He only laughs again, stealing a quick kiss upon her lips. "Awww, My Lady, but you love me!"

She sighs, rolling her eyes, but she circles her arms around his neck, anyway.

"That I do, kitty. That I do."


End file.
